Springtime Festival

 —Tan-Renga by
Christina Chin, Malaysia (plain text)
and Paul Callus, Malta (italics)
—Cherry Blossom Photos
Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

assembling
kirigami and origami
Spring Festival
          cut-and-fold
          home decorations

 

 

 

 

mother presses
white khaki pants
charcoal iron
         heaped dry washing
         a race against time

 

 

 

 

solitude
the pillow next to mine
cold
    only whispers
    of winter wind

 

 

 

 

waves creep
up the white shore
peaceful morning
    slow brush strokes
    tease her flowing hair

 

 

 

 

twilight
motionless on the branch 
    —a raven
    protects
    the chicks

 

 

 

 

the pink artificial
plum blossoms in vases
symbol of spring
    out of season ornaments'
    silken illusions

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The whole point of collaboration is that you give and take from each other, and that’s how you create things that are totally new.

—Virgil Abloh

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Christina Chin and Paul Callus for their fine tan-renga today!

 

 

 

 Owl in the Cherry Blossoms
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center is offering
A Youth DIY Chapbook Workshop
with Cloudy tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
 future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shadow Of My Hand

 Sanctuary

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

IN THE VERY EARLY MORNING
—Joyce Odam

In the very early morning
the lights are still on in the city.
I wake to read poetry of dead poets,
to light an incense to the quiet
and to feel myself enter
the rare tranquility of such an hour.
I light incense to the ritual
of soft feeling
I pull another sweat-shirt on
and lean against the propped pillow
against the cold, night wall.

The shadow of my hand
moves over this narrow page…
the black ink flowing from my fingers,
the shadow of my hand falling
exaggerated
over the wool blanket.
I am distracted.

The column of
blue-white smoke
rises from the swift-burning incense,
wavers
and separates
into a brief and
sinuous pattern.
The red lamp with the dust on it
glows in a pattern around itself.
Light is levitated from its source.
I see shadows around everything.
The dead poet
of my closed book
hushes her words for mine.

                                    
(prev. pub. in One Dog, October, 1996)

 

 

 

Love Letters

 

ANGELS, THE NIGHT IS BLUE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After “Love Calls Us to the Things of This
World” by Richard Wilbur)

In the pale blue center of the dream
angels surround the dreamer in the deep
blue of the long, low, breath of the dream.

Angels hold the dream of the dreamer,
at the end of the dream, in the blue room,
in the deathless night.

                                 
(prev. pub in Brevities, December 2017;
City of Sacramento’s E.M. Hart Senior
Center Poetry Writing Group Anthology 2018;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/23) 

 

 

 

Rumors

 

 
IT IS AS WHEN THE GREAT HOWLS RISE UP
—Joyce Odam

out of the throat of some creature on a
frozen landscape—on hind legs perhaps,
stretched full, into sheer far-reaching anguishes . . .

or like the new-found cry of some new ghost
found reaching for a prayer—final and slow,
in the loosened, abstract grip of being . . .

it is all of this—this self-resounding proclamation—
seeking the way through one’s own terrible self
with such a cry as I am hearing . . .
                                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/5/16)

 

 

 

Of Belief

 

 
UNTITLED, YET AGAIN…
—Joyce Odam
(After “Reliquary” by Eric Pankey)

Perhaps there are prayers
lost in the cathedral light
of this sign
left
standing,
for centuries, perhaps,
the words
still giving the day’s message,
the sermon to be,
the
date,
the
time,
but that Sunday has failed to arrive—
this remnant glass, stained by the sun,
holding its light, and its color,
or time—
claiming its wilderness of word,
preferring silence—
the way it keeps
reminding itself, how it leans
in the direction of memory—
that flaw—
how it points toward eyes
whenever possible—how it always
lets light through and closes down at night
to admire the stars and the moon it rests beneath.

 

 

 

Inventing The Mirage

 

 

THE MISMATCHED LOVERS
—Joyce Odam

He had a face so sad
he made her love him.

Each was a child to the other.
Each had a mystery to solve.

Each told a solemn story
and allowed one word of pity.

They turned away together
into their gentle misery;

they turned away as one and
blended till they disappeared.

We heard them, underneath the
darkness, softly crying ever after.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/11; 7/15/14)

 

 

 

Only Fantasy

 

FRAGMENT
—Robin Gale Odam

his hands warm, hers like paper
his voice a mystery, hers a breath
introduction, heartbeat


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2015) 

 

 

 

Nude On Petals

 

 

THE OLD NUDES APPRAISE THEMSELVES
—Joyce Odam
(After a drawing by Kumi Pickford, The Fault IX, April 1976)
 
Remember us?
We are the beauties you once loved;
and how we loved our mirrors

as we love them still.
We surround ourselves with mirrors—
loving how we are familiar.

Remember how you hounded us—
promised and cajoled—
all for the surrender of our kisses?

Your hands were braille to our bodies.
Your eyes were as deep as mirrors.
You wanted to undress us.

Now we are nude for our appraising eyes.
How serenely we settle into our ravages—
give ourselves permission to be old.

                                          
(prev. pub. in A Tiny Book Of Nudes Mini-Chap
by Joyce Odam, 2002; Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/18/13)

 

 

 

Everland

 

INSOMNIA X
—Robin Gale Odam

The moon rises with the setting
of the sun—distant and low, opposite
horizons—I want them both. Like book-

ends they press me together—my pages,
my chapters—and daydream gives way
to restless hours in jealous moonlight.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2016;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/23) 

 

 

 

The Dark Afraid Of The Light

 

ASPECTS OF A DARK DIMENSION
—Joyce Odam
(After Tulipa, pastel by Maria Sylvester)

It’s in the feature known as
background—a drooping red flower,
huge crowding leaves for the hiding,
petals grown too heavy for the light,
the ineffectual light—caught
in a mottlement of shadows,
urgent daubs of green and splotches
of orange overwhelm the flower.

The breezeway trembles with confusions.
The shade has lost the light.
Someone has died here.
A death-bird sings in the absence.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16;
6/29/21 (with edits)

 

 

 

Timekeeper

IN THE IMMENSITY OF LOSS
—Joyce Odam

To be a small figure at the edge of a flat                    
sea—forever at calm for the reaching eye
to reach a brief forever with a far-reaching
stare into the loss of possibility through the
air that is gold with sunset and as far as the
soul’s horizon—to stay here with no need
to make one more fierce or melancholy
cry, where there is no ear and there is
no answer—this timeless moment
that stays in the suspension
that is mind in memory
sorting the self against
the enormity of despair.

                                             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/15/22)

 

 

 

Ruin Takes Time

 

CRYING IN THE RAIN
—Joyce Odam

An old woman crying—what is her grief—
who cares about her? She is barely visible,
crying in the rain, walking across the street

in front of the cars,
letting the rain pour down on her,
looking straight ahead as her hair goes stringy

and her clothes soak through.
Still, she does not hurry. She is an old woman
walking in the rain. She has crying to do.
                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)

 

 

 

Full Moon And The Street Light

 

  

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD MOONS
—Joyce Odam

The moon comes up each night and floats
across the sky,
I am that sleepless one who stares
and marvels why.

Full moons leave me wandering
the mind’s abyss
where I explore my restless thoughts—
that endless list.

Alas, for all those dark-moon nights
when life enshrouds—
those nights that let no moonlight through
night’s heavy clouds           
                                                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/21/23)

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have sent us work today that is, as the Seed of the Week prescribes, “Sheer Poetry”, and our thanks to them for their fine words and Joyce’s fine visuals to go with them.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Dark Cave”. Remember to go wide, go deep—go past the literal, maybe. Is there room for metaphor here? Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 It’s Tuesday!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A reminder that
Soul Vang and Gary Thomas
will be reading in Modesto
tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
 future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sheer Poetry

 Sheer Poetry
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Devyanshi Neupane, Caschwa, and Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

UNSUSPECTED PITCHES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Any gifted poet
Should have at least
Four hands,
Four arms,
Peripheral vision
That sees around corners,
Over horizons,
Like aegis radar

Because there are gnomes
Who want to get out,
Who have something to say,
But might need an unused limb
To jab into space,
Spattering ink on paper
From unsuspected directions,
Like out of nowhere.

Who said that?
It wasn’t me,
I swear.

It must have been
A gone little gnome
Who pitches in the World Series
With sidewinders and
Curve balls
That end up in an
Unsuspecting
Catcher’s mitt.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHEER POETRY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Right thinking, staring, near despair,
thought-couplets on this cliff-edge dare
to swim in dizzy rhythmic ware
for sharing, grounded, paper spare.

Here, gripping rope, belay below,
yet knowing they’ll not understand,
as toe-tip barely crevice lip,
verse fabric not transparent, clear.

Now how to hold a central line—
like ballet, balanced in the climb,
with finger shifting where that weight,
as lover hugs, hates precipice.

Though buffeted by whistle wind,
sheer terror, rockface, just as mine,
a lonely lunge across the space,
the only stretch for plunge or crawl.

It’s bowline knot, down rabbit hole,
how I was taught to tie it taut,
as if one’s life on it depends,
the lesson learnt, passed sixty on.

A summit reached, room mere for one—
then only scale because it’s there—
identical for write as well—
so I will read, if me alone. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MY BAG
—Devyanshi Neupane, age 5, Melbourne, Australia

My bag is beautiful
Because it is colorful
I carry it,
When I go to School.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

REEL IS REAL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

If you’ve ever used
a reel mower to shear grass
that’s Sheer Poetry

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

NO ANSWER KEY
—Caschwa

(Ekphrastic response to “protected” images of the 

Uvalde, Texas mass shooting)

day after day, year after year
generation after generation
eon after eon, we are in high gear
trying to settle our commotions

man has gone to great lengths
to create, publish, and advertise
the laws, consequences, and angst
felons are sure to despise

it just isn’t working
additions and amendments
amount to just joking
with a Table of Contents

our prisons filled beyond their capacity
back to the books, we write down more laws
while criminals grow in numbers and tenacity
hurting us, killing us, with never a pause

we straddle local law enforcement with the
impossible task of keeping the peace,
but they can’t lock them up if they’re missing
    the key
so they stand there and grin like a mere flock
    of geese 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

CIVIL OBEDIENCE
—Caschwa

Red states:
the unartful
combination of
fear and stupidity
guided by the strings
of utter chaos run amok
mere rumors of perceived
threats steer the voting choices
to exactly those that match the ones
held by the plantation owner, the Master

while Abolition certainly changed the course
for black workers and families, it only put a
small dent in the circle of power held by a
white Master for generations, that loud,
tacit mandate for all but himself to be
step-and-fetch-its on call all the time,
so now, instead of blacks, Master
used his power to control whites
that were below him, and they
became the new face of
second-class citizens

add a Haiku here
to soften things up a bit
that’s it, close your eyes

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

NOT ENTIRELY
—Caschwa

Middleman meets
Midwife on the
Midway at
Mid-day
Half the time
he’s Half right
the glass is Half full
out of timeouts 4th Quarter
change machine out of Quarters
Buddy, can you spare me a Dime?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

GENTLE LANDING
—Joe Nolan

A joy to speak
To life-long friend
Of times that touched the sun
When the world was at-command,
And,
Unlike Icarus,
Got back to the ground
Unscathed.

Was it just a balloon-ride
To coast above the plains
Gaining, thus, a greater range
With which to bear our pains
Or was it our salvation
To spend a time in grace
Ever-after knowing
The basis
Of epiphany?

Though we must all walk
Aground
Our minds remain
In place
Where we touched the sun
To shatter humble beginnings
And learn that we’re all one.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WORDS INTO POETRY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Her words are dressed
in sunsets, moonlight,
ocean breeze, and flowers.
They sway and drift
translucent voile.
Her words are
sheer poetry.

________________________

Thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom spoke to our Seed of the Week in honor of National Poetry Month: “Sheer Poetry”. (All of their work is always sheer poetry, of course, and every week is Poetry Week in the Kitchen!) Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Speaking of National Poetry Month, it’s in full swing in the NorCal area; be sure to check out all the happenings at our http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/.

Deadlines: The annual Voices anthology from Cold River Press has a deadline of April 10, and the annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest has announced its deadline this year for July 15. Go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html for more information about both of these opportunities. 

 

April 10??? Yikes—that’s this coming Thursday!

________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that T-Mo’s  
Enhance Your Poetry Skills
Workshop takes place on Zoom
tonight, 5:15pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
Open Mic on the Theme of Reading
meets at 7:30pm tonight.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 The Sheer Poetry of LittleSnake~

 

Scattered Clouds

 —Poetry and Photos by Douglas Richardson,
Santa Ana, CA

 

 

ANOTHER SUNDAY’S SCATTERED CLOUDS

Another Sunday’s scattered clouds
and fifty miles to the Lancaster poppy fields—
the poppies are in bloom, but
the poppies are not the reason.
Driving into the high desert is the reason
listening to music is the reason
and afterward sitting with black coffee
and a maple bar in a Palmdale doughnut shop
where I can be alone with my ghost
for two or even three hours
and the doughnut lady won’t say a thing
    because
she has a day of the week
and a place of asylum just like me.

 

 

 

 

HOBO

A field of straw a foot high in the summer dirt
the heat of the day lingers here
in the windless twilight of a seaside town
of tents and newsprint
across the field all the lights of a
traveling carnival come to rest
all the moving lights
and what must be smoke
though it tastes like dust
and I know nobody there
and no one knows I’m here

 

 

 

 

LAMPS BURN ALL NIGHT

Lamps burn all night
in the estate sale company store
from Palm Springs to Singapore
the deceased all reached that point:
the ambivalence of last suppers
in the face of the unknown
lives well-lived
traveled to London, Paris, Bangalore
philosophized
partied all night
“A thousand square miles of fine furniture,
jewelry, movie memorabilia, and more,”
says General Manager Candy Jean, burning bright

_________________

SHE’S TAKING ECSTASY

She’s taking ecstasy and
   Pushing ice
      Along a stranger’s spine

The morning comes with spikes
   And suspect images
      In her mind:

A peacoat nightmare, a handbag
   Lost on god-knows-where stairs,
      A million lanterns on Broadway

Today is a sick day
   An omelet and hash browns day
      In a Divisadero diner
         With insomniac eyes, then

An afternoon alone:
   A Tom Collins on the windowsill
      Of the light well:

The shady light well, the
   Tranquil light well, a cabinet
      With the right pharmaceuticals

 

 

 

A MAN LIES AGING

A man lies aging
in his bed

his toe is black
it’s going dead

but
night air
comes through
the open window, cools
his face and lungs

and
clouds go by
quiet and low
lit from below
by the city lights

 

 

 

YOUR RESURRECTION

Your resurrection is complete
The vultures lie dead at your feet
In an otherwise empty field
So now what?
Are you still the same human
Dying to make a million?
Are you still the same frivolous Roman?
Or will you sit in a tree and strum a guitar?
Or hide in a library and plot against a tyrant?
Will you protest, demonstrate, crusade?
Be the savior and the saved?
Play the mensch and invite an enemy
For coffee?
And don’t trouble yourself about those birds
Their energy was conserved, and whatever
They’re doing now beats pecking
At the eyes of their fellow creatures

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BEGINNINGS
—Douglas Richardson

People sit in crowded restaurants
pretending they don’t hear the song
but nine years later
alone in a drive-thru
they’ll hear it again
and let it all go
right there in the car
they’ll let it all go

___________________

Newcomer Douglas Richardson lives in Santa Ana, California, with his wife, Jen, and cat, Wes. His poetry has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, Black Poppy Review, Cajun Mutt Press, The Ekphrastic Review, Hobo Camp Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Nervous Breakdown, The New Verse News, Straight Forward Poetry, Trouvaille Review, Poetry Super Highway, and others. In 2013, he won the Poetry Super Highway contest with his entry, “Notes from the Graveyard Shift.”  In these work-from-home years, he likes to watch Big Bang Theory reruns during his lunch hour. Welcome to the Kitchen, Douglas, and don’t be a stranger!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Douglas Richardson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Andru Defeye’s
First Church of Poetry meets
at noon on Sundays
during April and May in
McKinley Park, Sacramento, CA,
starting today. For info about this
and other future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 Poppies are in bloom. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bustling in the Kitchen

 —Poetry by Yongbo Ma, Nanking, China
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

MY OWN DARKNESS

Midnight, in the vacant courtyard  
I listen to my own darkness  
long gazing at the starry sky  
while stars are particles shedding from coarse
    sandpaper
 
The Earth is rising  
boundless as conscience  
I clap, hearing curved echoes from every path  
this ripened darkness is a black angel  
erect in the shrine of shrubs  
quieter than truth, purer than death  

Starlight falls into eyes no one can find  
eyes gradually paling, like frozen wooden buckets  
while the Earth, nearing the stars, trembles with
    fear  
there my unfortunate joy grows transparent

 

 

 

 

PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE SIDEWALK

Separate the throat from the voice  
separate love from the body  
separate blue from the sky  
separate distance from the remoteness  
separate Heraclitus from the river  
separate the door from the knocking sound  
separate the gesture suspended in mid-air from
    the hand  
separate the gaze from the eyes  
separate prayer from the snow pouring out of
    the church  
separate age from a word that cannot be bitten  
separate footsteps from the road  
separate death from the corpse  
separate cold from ice and snow  
separate heartbeat from silence  
separate thought from the brain  
separate wind from the air  
separate the halo from the saint  
separate fantasy from imagination  
the former is the overly trusting child  
separate me from you—  
you, the poem that is slowly separating  
from the paper and my hand  
you, the blackbird marking the white house

 

 

 

 

MERELY WORDS

They are light switches, illuminating the dark of
    things,
or the withered tips and handles of things.
Between the fermenting dough of desire and the
    dry bread of facts,
they are an array of flames slanted in the furnace,
carving peaks, passes, and fissures on the dough’s
    surface.

Some words lie docile like the fur of beasts under
    stroking hands
trembling variegated stillness, others arrive unan-
    nounced,
as fragments of an exploded whole,
unable to reassemble the original cause or glaring
    force.

Not even Pygmalion’s or Midas’ fingers
could soften or harden them.
They bring the mysterious breath of all existence,
a life we’ve never lived,
even the people there cannot escape death.

For example, when I arrange these words,
the osmanthus tree outside the window grows taller,
    for example,
a student’s leave-request note from a long-ended
    semester
somehow kept in my drawer, stating:
“The organization has important matters.”

And as a drained structure, it always reveals
on the damp bed of a ditch a snail’s slow
    confidence.

 

 

 

 

A PRAYER AT THE END OF THE DAY

The night grows deep, the starry axis spins, and
    I am still alive 
The world is destroyed anew every night  
but we pretend not to know  
The coolness we draw from the dead  
like a family crest, like a soft kiss, pressed on a
    burning forehead 

If the earth still rises toward the heights  
if new life fills the footprints  
if the beach drags out the darkness
from the depths of the sea and hangs it to dry  
if the swallows still bring rain to the ruined brows  
then you can live namelessly  
then you can, in advance, become  
a member of that eternal jury  

Profound happiness, you burst forth
like flame from the top of the skull  
you rise like ash in the air, building a leaning tower  
That person with a face full of dead chess moves  
the racing rain, the marking of time  
the tyrant's stiff black collar cannot destroy you  
For you, you are gazing at the heavens  
from the whale’s belly of language

 

 

 

 

A MORNING PRAYER FOR MY MOTHER
ON MY 55th BIRTHDAY

Through you, He brought me into this world, you
    virtuous woman 
I miss you in the intimate darkness of midnight  
in the early morning with light rain dampening
    the clothes
In the curving sleep that seems never-ending in
    the afternoon
The woman born of water, nurtured by
    earth, shaped by wind, extinguished by fire 
I miss you, and for today, 55 years ago  
the suffering you endured, the grace you received  
crying, giving thanks, praying, may my voice  
reach the farthest heavens, to be heard by the
    Most High 
May I be with you, sheltered in His shade  
May you sleep in the embrace of the Father, like
    a child 
You blessed woman, my mother  
please wait for the day when I shall dance
    with you in the circle of happiness 
reuniting, rejoicing, and praising

_____________________

TO MEDUSA’S KITCHEN
—Yongbo Ma

I watch you bustling in the magic kitchen,


preparing feast after feast for friends,


tables stretching to the horizon.


Vibrant fields of all seasons spread like a
    tablecloth—


waves of guests come and go:


feathered ones, fur-clad ones, those with fins…


Here, some timid fawns arrive now,


peering curiously into the house.
Happy spring—Medusa’s serpent locks


must be turning emerald too.

______________________

 

. . . only green with envy because there is so much fine poetry here, today and every day! Thank, you, Yongbo Ma, for these sprightly poems today (and for your fine letter-poem about Medusa bustin' a move or two in the Kitchen)!

 

_____________________

 

—Medussa, the girl with the bright green hair~

 

 

 

 

A note that
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
National Poetry Month celebrations
begin today with
an open house at noon,
then a reading at 2pm with
Clarence Major and April Ossmann;
and Truckee Literary Crawl takes place
in Downtown Truckee today, 1-8pm.
For more info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake hears his own darkness~